


with four black eyes to mirror the sky

by explosiontimothy



Series: Sherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace [2]
Category: Black Sails, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John Watson (mentioned) - Freeform, james is just gay, thomas is stupid and gay and angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:15:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27181664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosiontimothy/pseuds/explosiontimothy
Summary: a short fic set after chapter 7 of Sherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Series: Sherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984079
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	with four black eyes to mirror the sky

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to the first of the "bonus content" chapters of Sherlock Holmes and The Lord in Disgrace! this is a short bit set after chapter 7. i recommend you read the main fic first as this mostly makes sense in the context of that! 
> 
> for those who haven't, a quick summary: it's 1894, sherlock holmes is investigating the case of thomas hamilton at the behest of the earl of ashbourne, thomas has just been attacked and james has just kind of accidentally told doctor watson about their relationship
> 
> title is from Carol Anne Duffy's poem How many sailors to sail a ship?

When James strides in through the front door of the Hamiltons’ house, Miranda is the one who meets him, as she always does. He nearly runs headfirst into her, a fierceness thumping inside his very bones, pushing him forward. He thinks idly that he would walk through a solid wall if he had to, if it would help him get to Thomas quicker.

“Where is he? Where is Tho–”

Careful, gentle, as she always is, Miranda puts both her hands on James’ shoulders. He fears that she will feel the fire that’s tearing into his chest, that it will burn her too.

“He is in his study, just taking a moment. He is fine. Just slightly bruised. I need you to calm down.”

“Calm down?” James breathes, high-pitched and incredulous. “Calm  _ down _ ? Miranda, he was  _ attacked _ –”

“By men likely much more interested in the size of his purse than in his political ambitions. I doubt that they even knew who he was, James. They just saw a well-dressed man in the street and thought to have a go.” She cups his face and inhales and exhales slowly, deeply. Unconsciously, he mimics her. “He is well and, in fact, rather pleased with himself for putting his two weeks of boxing classes in Oxford to use.”

He knows she’s trying to make him laugh, trying to make light of this incredible mess they have so tangled themselves in. That’s why James loves Miranda; that’s why she is a much needed third limb to the creature that he and Thomas have now welded themselves into. But he can’t find it in himself to laugh, he can’t find it in himself to calm down. The scotch from Sherlock Holmes’ decanter still burns deep in his stomach, so deep that James thinks it might actually make him sick. He needs to tell Thomas, and he needs to tell him straightaway. As much as he loves Miranda, this is not a burden she can take away from him, not with a few kind words. Not this time. 

When she sees the expression on his face, Miranda’s own smile falls away. “James, what’s wrong?”

“I need to speak to him. I–”  _ I may have made a terrible mistake. I may have put our entire endeavour at risk. All because I wasn’t careful enough.  _ “There’s been a development that he needs to be made aware of, immediately. I’m sorry Miranda, it just can’t wait.”

The wild look in his own eyes is reflected in Miranda’s. She takes her hands off his shoulders. All she tells him is: “It will be fine, James.”

James nods and then turns on his heel to head to the study. He feels wound up like a violin string and he thinks he may as well snap every second now. He wishes for Miranda to be right. He wishes for it desperately. 

He has no time to think of how Thomas will react, of what he will say to him, of how he’ll explain why he has revealed a secret they have kept so close to a complete stranger. James has no time and every blood cell in his body is burning. 

Inside the study, Thomas is seated on the chaise lounge near the hearth, rather than at his desk. There is a wet rag pressed against his face, slightly stained with blood. A bruise blooms under his left eye. 

James freezes, and they look at each other, still and shocked. The sight of Thomas’ blood makes a thunderstorm howl wildly inside of him. He feels jagged, like a razor in urgent need of a grindstone. 

Thomas’ mouth opens to say something but James, for once, does not want to hear it. On a typical day, he chases Thomas’ words with everything he can. Right now, however, he cannot bear to do anything but touch him, but hold him, but love him the way Thomas has always deserved and always will deserve to be loved. The way James hopes he can love him. 

Before he knows it, he is kneeling in front of his lover and cradling his hands with care. Normally, he feels Thomas as strong as a castle, fortified and unbreakable. Now, he holds Thomas’ wrists as if his lover is made of wet sand and can crumple any second. He presses desperate, pleading kisses to the bone where Thomas’ wrist meets his palm, again and again and again.

“James.” Thomas’ voice is so impossibly kind, and it tears into James. He does not deserve this. “James. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Forgive me. Thomas, I– Thomas–” James’ voice stutters at Thomas’ name, all he can do is repeat it like a confession, like a prayer, like a benediction. 

“What is it? Why are you crying, you ridiculous man?” Thomas asks with unbearable fondness, and it’s only then that James realises that he is. “It is simply a bruise, nothing more.” 

He moves his hands but James does not want to let them go, and oh, how fragile his wrists look, how thin the skin stretched over his veins. James fears and loves so much it may kill him. 

Thomas, eventually, does move one of his hands out of James’ grasp; he cups his face, tilting it to meet his eyes. James looks at the colour of the sea, and it only feeds the storm inside of him. “I’m fine,” Thomas repeats and brushes a thumb along James’ bottom lip, his touch light, careful not to open it up again. “Do you want to tell me what happened to you?”

“I–” The words don’t come, still. Thomas doesn’t seem to mind.

“Look at us, a pair of brawlers. We have wounds to match.” Thomas’ fingers move from James’ lip to the bruise next to his eye that’s already blotchy and yellow, instead of blue. His eyes twinkle and James can never quite get enough of the look Thomas gives him, can never quite believe it’s meant just for him. “ _I will press my wounds against yours, and that is how we shall both heal, and that is how we shall both become one whole being, one whole blood_ _vessel, thumping within the rhythm of one heart._ ”

James huffs, letting the dry warmth of Thomas’ palm on his take in the uninvited moisture from his eyes. “Who wrote that?”

“I did. During my rather unsuccessful escapades at poetry in Oxford. Wrote it for a boy who punched me after I tried to kiss him. That boy didn’t deserve it, so I have now decided it belongs to you. Just like everything I ever was and I ever will be–it’s all destined to live in your tender hands.” 

Breath is knocked out of James’ lungs as if someone has hit him square in the chest. Thomas has always been like this. For him, making sweeping, grand declarations of devotion is as easy as breathing. James, on his part, finds the act of loving Thomas easy enough, yet often cannot find words adequate enough to encompass the well of emotion within him. That’s why his mouth moves, uselessly, as he turns his head to plant a shaking kiss on to Thomas’ palm.

Using James’ distraction, Thomas frees his other hand and fully cups his face. “Will you tell me what has you distressed so now, or are you desperate to hear more of my embarrassing poetry? I can provide, if you are.”

James laughs weakly around the lump in his throat, around the tightness in his chest. He hoists himself up to sit on the chaise next to Thomas, catching his hands in his own, thumbs brushing over Thomas’ knuckles. He hopes, foggily, that his betrayal will be easier to confess when he is in a less vulnerable position, when he doesn’t have to think about the unbearable tenderness of Thomas’ touch.

Thomas must read something in his face because the smile drops from the corner of his mouth. “James. You worry me. What’s wrong?”

James worries at his wounded lip. “Sherlock Holmes gave me this.” 

“Holmes– the detective? He  _ attacked _ you? Why on earth would he do that?”

“I–” It takes all of James’ strength to not tremble with indignation, the accusation still bright and hot in his chest. “He had heard you had been attacked. He had reason to suspect the attack was of my doing, and when he returned to his rooms I was there talking to Doctor Watson. He– jumped to certain conclusions.”

Thomas’ jaw hangs open. “Hang on, excuse me. James– why on earth would he think that you wished to do me harm?”

James is decidedly not ready to launch into this discussion–for Hennessey’s words from the other night still stung deep in his heart. He goes for another truth, one much more simple. “Your father hired Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson to investigate mine and Miranda’s affair. He has promised to pay them handsomely if they were to prove that she and I were responsible for bringing ruin to your family.”

It’s not often that one could fully witness the extent of Thomas Hamilton’s ire. His instinctive approach to others is always with kindness and care–even if he’s about to eviscerate every worldly belief they hold, he will be so gentle throughout that it would feel more like a caress than a punch. It’s not the only reason why James fell in love with him, but it’s something he often thinks about because it terrifies him to his core. He is shaken by the thought that the world will eradicate Thomas’ kindness in some kind of brutal way and, when it happens, James will not stand the sight of it. 

Seeing rage in Thomas quells that fear, just a little. It makes James feel as close to him as he does when they’re making love. It is the same act of allowing Thomas deep into his own body. 

“That– that insufferable wicked fucking  _ bastard! _ ” Thomas jumps to his feet, running a hand through his hair as if he is ready to rip it out. His face under the mottled bruise on his cheek is pale. “What  _ right  _ does he have to do this? How can his rotten, blackened heart not find an ounce of sense and leave us well and truly alone?” Thomas blindly grabs a tumbler on a small table nearby and throws it at the wall. The crystal shatters like salt. “And he calls  _ me _ a degenerate! He calls  _ me _ a sinner! He has appointed himself judge, jury and executioner, and he expects me to just sit down and do  _ nothing  _ while he destroys that which I hold most sacred! How dare he!” 

Thomas’ hands clench into fists as his anger fizzes within him, white-hot and healing. James feels it like a fire burning a fever from inside of him. He stands up, and goes to Thomas covering his fists with his hands. It feels good, he thinks, not to be the one to jump into rage for once.

“If he ever tries to hurt you,” Thomas’ voice drops as he presses his forehead against James’. “I swear to God I will kill him myself, James.”

James breathes, once, twice, and holds Thomas close. He wills himself to continue. “Thomas, there’s more.”

Thomas follows his breaths, drawing strength from the shared air between their lips. He says nothing, so James decides to rip the scab clear off the festering wound. “They know about you and me. Holmes and Watson. They– they followed me, the other night, when I came here. When you met me at the servants’ entry. Thomas, it is entirely my fault. I was reckless, and I have brought us to ruin because of it. I will not let this hurt you. I shall take the fall for us both, I will—”

“James, please look at me.”

James lifts his eyes to meet Thomas’. He opens his mouth to continue but finds himself unable—for Thomas’ lips are upon his and suddenly the howl of the storm within James is silenced in an instant.

Thomas tastes, smells and feels like he always does—sweet and clean and soft. His kiss is firm, and demanding, and James gives in to it completely, his hand cupping the back of Thomas’ head, pulling him closer. It has the remains of his anger, the sourness of his worry, the depth of his tenderness. Thomas’ teeth graze his wounded lip and reopen it and James can taste copper.  _ Let Thomas have it _ , he thinks blithely,  _ My blood, my heart, every breath I draw from my lungs—let him have all of me, all that he would take that I could give.  _

Thomas pulls back, planting gentle kisses on James’ lip as a silent apology. James chases them in silent reverie. 

“You are ever so brave, my love,” Thomas breathes into the crook of James’ nose. “But I will not let you fall anywhere. And, I do not think you have a reason to fear falling at all.” 

James pulls back to look at Thomas’ face. “Thomas, the weight of the confession I thrust upon Doctor Watson is enough to buy us one way tickets to Reading Gaol.”

“While that may be true, I doubt that the good doctor will be the one to lead us there.” Thomas gently pushes James back onto the chaise lounge and settles next to him, his long fingers going to untie the queue from James’ hair. The moment Thomas’ nails scratch into his scalp, James feels tension bleed out from him. “I have grown to know and like the man rather a lot; we had an enlightening conversation in my parlour a few days back when he and Mary visited us for dinner.”

“You did?”

“Mmm.” Thomas pulls James towards him and urges him to turn so Thomas can sit behind him, gently untangling the knots from his hair. “He was under the impression that I had romantic inclinations towards him.”

James whips his head around to stare at his lover, incredulous, and ever so slightly hurt. Thomas is quick to soothe with a careful kiss behind his ear. “I most assuredly do not, darling. I made it clear to him that my heart is in the possession of another.” Another kiss. “A rather ravishing sailor, reckless to a fault, with a sense of honour almost as big as his cock.”

“Thomas!” 

A breath of a laugh tickles the back of James’ neck. “I did not use these words exactly, of course, for fear of giving the good man a conniption. But, they are nevertheless true. Let me tell you, the doctor is very much a man of our own persuasion. I had had my suspicions about it for a while, but meeting him in the flesh only solidified them.” His hands have now moved to meticulously massage James’ shoulders, and have somehow slipped his coat off. James groans at the sensation and rolls his neck, feeling it click.

“Doctor Watson is a sodomite?”

“You know how I hate that word, James.”

“You must be wrong, Thomas. He is so–” James struggles for a word to describe the doctor. “He did not strike me to be in that way.”

“I am never wrong,” Thomas replies loftily, placing a kiss on the crown of James’ head. “What are the markers of a man in that way, my dear? Do you think you have them? Do I? It is clear to the naked eye that Doctor Watson is in love with his associate. Whether the feelings are returned I could not say, for I have not had a chance to speak to the man much at all. But I am certain that I’m correct and, therefore, certain that you have no cause to worry. Doctor Watson will not betray us.” 

James turns in Thomas’ arms and Thomas makes a displeased sound at being forced to take his hands off James’ shoulders. The anxiety that was threatening to tear him in two during his ride to the Hamiltons’ house was nothing but an unpleasant memory now. Thomas always knows what to say. He always knows how to catch the threads of anger and grief spilling from James and untangle them. He makes the world around James make sense. 

“Do you feel better?” Thomas asks and James kisses him because he can. He still feels jittery and anxious, but it’s now nothing that more time spent in Thomas’ warm embrace won’t fix.

“You are turning into a detective of your own, aren’t you?” James mumbles against Thomas’ cheek. He feels the responding laugh shake Thomas’ chest, feels Thomas’ finger trace the line of his jaw and stroke his coarse beard. He has been needing to shave, he thinks, for being bare-faced is always preferred among Navy men, but Thomas had reacted oh so beautifully to his beard when he’d returned from his voyage, he hadn’t the heart to. 

“Would you prefer it if I were to wear a deerstalker and hunting coat, darling?”

“Absolutely not. You’re lucky I let you get away with that repulsive wig you wore in on the day we met.”

“Lord, don’t remind me. I hate the thing more than you do.” Thomas is placing gentle kisses on his face, kissing the healing bruise, the split lip. James in turn runs his fingers over Thomas’ bruise. Love, he thinks, has manifested in these bruises. They have marked each other through the hands of others. He feels better for it.

“I would rather fancy going to bed with you.”

“It’s early afternoon,” Thomas replies with the false air of a man who does not regularly lounge about in his bed at any given time of day. 

“I’m exhausted after this morning. I could use a short sleep before we start discussing policy.”

Thomas’ lips press to the corner of his eye. “Hm. I would have to let go of you to get to my bedroom and, frankly, I am not sure if I can manage to do that just now. So what are we to do?” 

They compromise by laying themselves out on the plush rug in front of the hearth in Thomas’ study. Thomas locks the door and proceeds to carefully strip James out of his clothes, kissing every inch of skin that reveals itself. James sighs and lets Thomas whisper words of worship into the crevices of his body. They make love in a slow, unhurried way, chasing closeness more than completion. James delights in the way he can relay his thoughts to Thomas with the strength of touch alone:  _ I love you. I’m here. We’re okay. _

Afterwards, Thomas, predictably, dozes in James’ arms, the firelight dancing along his naked skin. James covers them both with his coat and presses his lips to the delicious dip where Thomas’ neck meets his shoulder, again and again and again. Later, they will need to go over the text of Thomas’ proposal again. They will need to plan the letter Thomas will write to the MP in Scarborough and bury themselves in legislative books and perhaps meet with Sutton in the evening. However, just for this one moment, caught in the warmth of the fire, they can rest. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! find us on the social medias: 
> 
> me (toni): on twitter @blahaj_haver  
> my co-writer (phoenix): on twitter @thegearsystem, on tumblr @beholdingransom (main) and @dandyholmes (holmes)


End file.
